


Reclamation

by Teddy_Warmspring



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-06-08 22:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15253629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teddy_Warmspring/pseuds/Teddy_Warmspring
Summary: There's no fooling around with the massive GoT plot; this is straight up SanSan for your pleasure.This is how Season 8 would go if I was the show runner;-p





	1. All the Sansas Except the One He Knew

**Author's Note:**

> All roads have led to Winterfell and the air is full of tensions.

His first kill. His first fuck. Those times he'd ridden to war. He remembers fear, but never on its own. 

His first kill; fear and anger. His first fuck; fear and lust. Riding off to battle is always fear and anticipation. A face held to a brazier is fear and pain. Unable to act as you watch some dickless arse merrily beat and strip the woman you care for in front of a crowd is fear and self-loathing. Drinking yourself into oblivion when you hear she's been forced to marry a spoiled prick is fear and despair. 

But now, after five days at Winterfell, watching and wondering about Sansa Stark, all he feels is pure fear. 

On the dais in the great hall the lords and ladies around her laugh and share smiles, but she's Serious Sansa.  
Surrounded in the yard by a reunion of her sister and brothers, care and concern clear in their eyes, she's Somber Sansa.  
Walking the galleries, observing the work done there, listening to the reports of craftsmen eager to please, she's Silent Sansa.

Every Sansa he's observed scares him in ways he can't describe.

On the journey to Winterfell he assumed she'd hate him, want him hung. He contemplated ways to show her how he'd changed since that night he offered to steal her away. To show her how pivotal it had all been, setting him forever on a long path that he now realized had always been one leading back to her. And in quiet moments alone, just before sleep, taking himself in hand, he allowed himself to imagine her glad to see him. Elated. Rushing to him once inside the gate, no, rushing out the gate to great him before he even entered her castle. Throwing her arms around him, joyous to see him, missing him as much as he ached for her. But it was a ghost of a memory never to be. Just like his real memories of her, as she was in King's Landing, were clearly just ghosts now too.

Arya had been pleased enough to seek him out in the training yard and at meal times in the Great Hall. They jested, often insulting the weaknesses they knew to exist in the other. But there was always something happy behind her's, and some tenderness behind his. Did they even mean any of it?

It has been fear that kept him from outright asking Arya about her sister. Fear that she'd see the feelings she already suspects he has. Fear that she'll confirm even a fraction of the awful rumors he's heard about what happened to Sansa at the hands of the Boltons, delivered unto them by the grabby hands of Littlefinger who himself spirited her away from the abusive hands of a wretched boy-king and his mother's court of corruption.

Now, over a lunch of simple bread and hard cheese and weak ale, Sandor works up the courage to joke about Arya's penchant for wearing breeches and asks, "What does your sister have to say about this habit of yours still? Can't imagine she allows it willingly now that she runs Winterfell."

Arya's smile slides away. "Nothing. She says very little anymore that's not required of her. Especially since all of you arrived with the Queen."

"Did the Imp and I bring back bad memories from King's Landing?"

"I wouldn't think so. You're the only two from that time she's ever spoken well of."

"That's not saying much."

"No, truly. It is. At least she's talked about that," Arya says, looking towards the head table at her sister's empty seat. "I mean she's talked about King's Landing a few times to me when she's been in her cups."

He snorts a laugh. "Sansa Stark? Drunk?"

"It wasn't a cause for celebration," Arya says, scrunching her face. "She's come to me a few times after drinking alone in her room. I think it's to dull the pain."

"Can't say I blame her on that one," he says, drinking from his own cup of ale. 

They were several feet from the nearest men, and Arya felt some need to share the burden of these secrets entrusted to her without her consent really. "She says she sometimes regrets that Tyrion left her alone, never touched her." Sandor raises an eyebrow. "I know, it sounds insane but if he had made her his wife, in true, then Littlefinger couldn't have annulled their union and married her to Ramsey."

"Seems like a shit trade-off."

"But she says the biggest regret is not leaving with you." He stops chewing his bread, eyes frozen on his plate. "Did you ask her?"

He looks up. "Didn't she tell you?"

"No, but you must have, otherwise she'd just be jealous you got away from there. She can only regret not going if you asked her to."

"Aye. I did. In a manner of speaking." He continues eating, not looking her in the eye.

"Must be some story if neither of you wants to tell it." Sandor grunts in agreement. "Well I guess I should be happy with what little I've got from you. Beggars can't be choosers and it's loads more than I know about her time here with Ramsey."

"She never talks about that?"

"Never."

"You think she would if only to quell some of the rumors."

"That's just it," Arya says, an anxiousness rising in her tone. "The only thing she's ever told me about it is that the rumors don't come close to how horrible it was."

Sandor clenches his jaw, his stomach rolling. 

"I wish he was still alive," Arya says, her eyes glazing over as if staring at something distant and not really there, "so I could kill him myself."

"You and me both, Wolf Girl."


	2. Reconsidering Sansa

Sandor's conversation with Arya doesn't assuage his fear, but it allows curiosity to surface as well. Suddenly Sansa is a mystery.

Surprised as he is, he can still think of many reasons why she'd regret not going along with his fool idea to run away the night of that horrid battle on the Blackwater. He just can't figure out which of the reasons, no matter how outrageous or pathetic, must be her's. He knows now, for certain, what would have most likely befallen them. Maybe starving on the run in a war-ravaged land really was so much better than what she'd known, and if so, then he pitied her. Or maybe she agreed with him when he said he wouldn't let anyone hurt her ever again, though he knew it to be a lie now and then because he'd hurt her himself. Hadn't he? On that night, waiting in her room, filled with wine and fear and desperation, he'd been fantasizing about cold nights sleeping next to each other on the ground. Even as he offered her escape, he pictured himself drawing her close, her back nestled against his chest, wrapping his arms and cloak around her to warm them both. If she regretted missing out on an older man dreaming up contrived situations that forced them to be physically close, then her pitied her even more.

But why imagine, project, and invent scenarios in his mind's eye that would never have been, when he could look at the real Sansa here and now? There was no harm in looking at the real thing.

He'd stolen glances at her so far, keeping her in his periphery, afraid of what he might see if he looked straight on at that dead stare she wore everywhere. But now, the morning after his conversation with Arya, he finally sees her fully as she is now. Staring at her, contemplating her from where he stands on the edge of the training yard is precisely what he's doing when her brother, Jon, catches him.

Sandor has just won four consecutive rounds against Northmen, a practice Jon encouraged so the younger men who've never known war can learn from his Southron style. He wipes down his sweaty head and turns his back to the training, the others around him distracted by new opponents, and takes advantage of the moment to watch her on the gallery. She wears her dark grey cloak trimmed with grey fur, and the stone wall behind her seems to help in bleaching her skin of all color, even dulling the fire spark of her hair. Her face bears no expression as she dispassionately listens to an older man standing next to her, ledger in hand, pointing to barrels and firewood stacked against a wall below. Sandor wonders if she wants to blend in, camouflaging herself within Winterfell, becoming part of the cold stone.

"So what have they learned?" Jon asks, clapping Sandor on the back. "Are they paying attention, picking things up?"

"Aye. The buggers are slow at catching on, but eager to figure it out to best me for bragging rights." On the ship, after the dragon rescue and that damnable meeting in King's Landing, Jon talked with Sandor about what it would take to train men to fight the wights. That he had come to him at all, especially for advice, displayed a form of respect Sandor was still unfamiliar with. "It would come in handy if the dead were walking towards us from the South," he says.

"That much is obvious, Clegane. But we both know trying different tactics varies their style therefore making it easier to adapt to any enemy." Sandor spits on the ground to clear his mouth of dirt and debris swallowed in a good fight. "See some good where you can. We're not to be hopeless," Jon advises.

"Aye."

"Now, give me some hope and tell me what vexes my sister so. She's been quieter than usual since the Queen's arrival." Jon reconsiders and adds, "since all of us arrived."

"Fuck if I know," Sandor says, snapping the armor off his shoulders.

"She hasn't said anything? About me or the Queen?"

"She hasn't spoken to me at all." He leans forward, resting at his elbows on a weapons rack, back still to the fighting. He daringly raises his eyes to take a proper look again at Sansa, figuring he has an excuse since her own bother is talking to him about her. 

The man with the ledger is talking to her just as Jon is talking to Sandor. Sansa stares right back. They are mirror images. 

_What are you thinking, Little Bird?_

"I sent a raven to her as soon as our ship sailed. I sought to warn her that I was bringing some of her past to Winterfell. I vouched for you and Lord Tyrion." Jon pauses, a slight smile finding its way to his lips. "She replied with a whole paragraph about you. Said I was not to worry because you had protected her in King's Landing and kept her sane. There was one sentence about Tyrion, some polite nonsense." They both laughed and Sandor took his eyes off her to look at Jon, grateful for a beak from the intensity. "She's really not spoken to you?"

When Sandor looked up again, she was gone. "What reason would the Lady of Winterfell have to talk with a dog like me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad to hear yinz are enjoying it. I've got like 6 of these puppies already written. Just working on posting while also crafting the rest:)


	3. Reclaiming the Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some discussion of past abuse of both humans and dogs.

That evening's meal brings annoying company. Brienne of Tarth has come to sit across the table from Sandor, asking his advice on some training she's conducting with Wildlings. He doubts she needs it. The whole conversation seems contrived, clearly a peace offering of sorts from the buggering  _warrior_ who almost killed him. Its bad enough he had arrived at Winterfell without any sort of greeting, welcoming or threatening, from Sansa, but worse yet that Brienne had been the first person within the walls to recognize him and reach out to say so. Why couldn't she, like everyone else, be too mesmerized by the bloody dragons to notice him?  _They were bloody fucking dragons, Brienne, so leave me alone and don't go on and on to me about being Sansa Stark's sworn shield and personal errand boy. Cunt._  

Perhaps making nice with him isn't her idea? If she'd been advised to do so, then he can manage civility if sneaky Sansa's behind it.

But if this brutish woman is there, then Tormund Giansbane isn't far behind. While Sandor can tolerate Tormund well enough, he is thoroughly annoyed by Tormund's pathetic attempts to woe the big bitch. Right now they sit across from him, engaged in some silly back-and-forth over a ribald remark that Brienne pretends not to understand. Sandor empties his meaty broth and passes a glance over the head table to see Sansa there...looking back. She holds his gaze as she  lifts her wine cup, and he swears she makes a slight nod at him before taking a sip. He swallows hard with an empty mouth.

"Clegane, before I go, I have a request to deliver on behalf of Lady Sansa," Brienne says. Sandor returns his attention to his two tablemates. "She'd like for you to visit the kennels in the morning to assess the dogs, and then advise her on what you find there."

"Does your Lady think because people call him Dog that he has some special way of knowing them?" Tormund teases.

"No," Brienne replies. "She said Clegane's grandfather was the Kennel Master for a great house. His dogs once saved the Lord's life and it's how the Cleganes won their lands and keep."

"Is this true, my fierce friend?"

"Aye."

"How have I not heard this take if it be so well known throughout your world?" asks Tormund.

"It isn't," Brienne says, eyeing Sandor suspiciously. "It seems my Lady and Clegane crossed paths in the past, during their time in King's Landing."

"Is this true? Did you know the fire-haired beauty before?"

"Aye," Sandor says, looking up to note Sansa's absence now from the Hall. "I knew her once." 

 

***********

 

The next morning Sandor approaches the kennels at first light, eager to see the dogs before the whole castle is awake, the hustle and bustle of all its people potentially putting them on edge. With little light in the sky, and no lit torches in the wall sconces, it's dark as pitch inside. He walks slowly down the center even though you should always let sleeping dogs lie. The time he's spent in other kennels in Westeros tells him one dog should catch wind of him, growl low to alert the others, and then an explosion of shallow barking will envelop him until he can yell "calm down" loud and deep enough to show he's in charge. That doesn't happen.

He hears one truly vicious growl turn into a bark, on his right, and then the sound jumps out as a body throws itself into the bars of its cage. Then another serious bark, and another, and then two dogs fighting, one yelping in pain, but not the kind of yelp that signals retreat, but rather the desperate yelp of a dog who continues to fight because he can't retreat. Foamy spittle splats on Sandor's cheek, he yells "buggering hells" as loud as he can, and turns to run back. He's amused at how frightened he is, lets out a deep gut laugh of retreat, and its in this moment that an older man with a lit torch enters the kennels.

"Oi, what the fuck's going on in here?" The man sees a burned and mangled face storming towards him from the dark. He holds the torch out in defense, but Sandor grabs it and turns to light the sconces as if to see the horror of the creatures will ward off further terror. "Oh, its you. The Hound."

"Aye, and you better treat me truer than you do these beasts, Kennel Master."

"What?" the man scoffs. "I ain't no Kennel Master. Just the only shit for brains not so scared he can't feed them. They're mad, they are."

"What's been done to them?"

"They've grown accustomed to human flesh. No Kennel Master worth his salt would take up work here, even if finding one was a priority what with the Others and all."

"Human flesh?"

"I don't know the story, just that folks who were around in the Bolton days say the dogs are cursed and should be killed." He sets two buckets of food down, and reaches for a pan and shovel to pick up the dirt collected in the cages overnight. "I told her myself the nicest thing to do is put these dogs out of their misery, but she don't listen to me. The Lady, that is."

"I'll take it from here," Sandor says, reaching for the tools. "For this morning anyway."

"No skin off my back. Just losing a chore I took up out of pity."

"I said just for this morning," Sandor calls after the man as he walks into the bitter winter wind.

Sandor spends the next two hours feeding and baiting the dogs, leaning what he can about them. They are tall, wire-haired like wolfhounds but with thick-barreled Mastiff chests that probably improve their stamina for long hunts on the North's wide ranges. Parts of them remind him of others dogs he's known, yet all together they aren't like anything he's ever seen.

After one particularly nasty exchange with the last bit of food, one in which he is sure his interference makes a mangled dog suffer more than usual, he walks back towards the entrance, back into natural light, and realizes his heart is racing. He needs to catch his breath. He leans back against the stone cold wall, slides down to sit on the ground, and that's when he notices her in the doorway.

With what little sun there is behind her, she's cast in shadow and he can't make out her face. She also hasn't said anything as a greeting, so he nods his head in silent acknowledgement. It feels like the right choice. Anything formal, like a proper greeting everyone else gives her, wouldn't do; he doesn't want to make it and he knows she won't accept it, not from him. It would read as a lie and he once swore he'd never lie to her.

"Human flesh, eh?"

She walks towards him, a move counterproductive to his efforts to slow a racing heart. But at least he can see her now, or the bit of her not covered in that dark grey cloak. They both look down the aisle, towards the dogs. "Yes, my late husband liked to send young women into the woods, ill-dressed and hungry, and then hunt them with these dogs." Sandor doesn't respond. He knows silence will only draw out more, and although he wishes to hear no more, he sense she needs to tell it. "He often took the Kennel Master's daughter, a woman not quite as cruel as he, but as savage. So they could have relations next to the dogs as they devoured the dead body. Or at least," Sansa adds with a sigh, "that's what she would tell me as she held me down for him upon their return." She lowers herself to sit next to him, back against the wall, her knees curled up to remain under the cloak.

"Fuck me." He wonders now if she isn't dead inside like he often felt in Kind's Landing. Or perhaps she's simply encased in ice, keeping everything in so those around her can be safe. Surely most people could not hear her tales and take them in stride.

Except for him. The man who loved killing so much he's once told a breathtakingly beautiful and innocent girl child in his charge that it was the sweetest thing. Surely a man like him possesses the power to absorb her gore.

"It's alright," she says, turning her face to look him straight on. She even cracks a subtle smile. "It means the dogs were very cooperative when I fed him to them."

Sandor barks a laugh, a noise that echoes off the stone and sets the dogs to a chorus of answers. It's a release of his tension, that tower of anxiety he's built in his time here. It's a laugh that celebrates his first real look at her, the real her. She laughs with him, catching on despite herself.

“Seven hells, Little Bird." He quiets down, hoping she won't notice and keep going, keep laughing on her own. He loves this laugh and thinks he could listen to it, and only it, as long as she'd let him. It was like a juicy thick steak to a man who's lived on hard jerky for years.

They sit there, backs against the wall, heads turned towards each other, improbable smiles on both their faces. She hums, "mmm," and closes her eyes. "Little Bird," she whispers, as if to herself.

"Aye, it's obvious you're no longer a little bird, trapped in a gilded cage, chirping your courtesies. But I'll keep calling you that if you'll allow it, to remind you of the magnificent woman you've become."

"I'll allow it."

"Good." The connection between them right now, this close, eyes locked, is so intense that Sandor thinks his heart will swell as to crack his ribs open, but then his innards spilling out will surely kill the mood. "So with the way things have been going, I'll get the chance to call you that, what...every two weeks when you contrive some way to get me alone?" It is said in jest, but not really. The distance she kept had agonized him.

"I'm sorry," she looks away, considering for a moment. "You know that feeling of unease when you wake the morning after you've spent a night in your cups? There's a confusion about what did or did not happen?"

"Perhaps. I may have experienced that a time or two." He breaks into a big grim, hoping to keep her at ease, keep her talking. She laughs again, a true laugh that will replay in his memory for much time to come.

"That's what its like living under duress. You're constantly on edge, vigilant and spread thin like the worn elbows of an old dress. Later, it's hard to trust your memory to know if what you think happened actually happened that way, if at all."

"Same thing happens after battle. Even after a fist fight in a tavern to some extent."

"I like that. Battle. That's what it felt like. At battle with the Lannisters. Then Baelish. Then Ramsey. At battle for years."

"Even with me, at times," he offers. She scrunches her face a little at that, considering.

"Not really. At least that’s not how I've come to remember it after all these years." She pulls her braid around her shoulders and begins fiddling with the end as if she wants something to distract her. "I didn't understand you and what you were saying to me then. I was a child. But now I often think on it and I believe I get it, so much of it right and generous and..." here she trails off, her eyes unfocused, staring at some picture in her mind. "I thought you were dead, so all my memories of you were glossed with nostalgia. No harm could come from the Sandor I had created in my head." He fills his lungs deeply at his name rolling through her lips, unaware until then he'd been holding his breath, afraid to startle her or miss a thing she says. "But when Jon's raven said you were among his company, I started second guessing myself. It's a defense." She frowns at the memory. "Forgive me."

He chuckles. "You don't ever need to apologize to me."

She smiles softly. "As I was watching you here, seeing who you are now, remembering who you were then, I recalled you're from a Kennel Master's family."

"And you so conveniently have a problem in your kennels," he teases.

"But I do! Clearly this is real, however convenient. And I know one of Westeros' greatest warrior has much better things to do," she says, her lips forming into a slight pout, "But I need help. Honestly." He couldn't stop himself from laughing and once again it was infectious to her.

"So your problem is these buggers are your accomplices in revenge and you're too indebted to put them down?"

"Revenge?" she cocks an eyebrow. "Justice." The glint in her eyes as they narrow with insistence is so fierce he can't help but reciprocate.

"Aye. Justice then."

"And revenge. Just a wee bit of revenge," she winks.

He feels himself soaring, so elated he's sure he looks like a giant green fool, but he is glad of it. "So tell me, Lady of Winterfell, how may I advise you on your dog problem?" Here he winks too, signaling the double meaning to his words.

"They're Winterfell's breed. A line my father loved and created. A connection to him." A single tear begins to fall despite her small smile, and she turns from him again. Speaking to the emptiness before them, "I can't just say anything sullied by Ramsey must be destroyed. I have to believe there's recovery from his abuse." She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. "Will you help me reclaim them?"

Sandor reaches over, taking her hand in his. "Of course, Sansa."

"How?" she asks, squeezing back.

"There's a few in these who are made awful to survive the others. I'll have to cull the bastards, can't save them all, but with some time and space they'll let me come near them again."

"Will they ever be tame enough to breed?"

"Of course," he says, a lopsided grin growing on his face. "Even the most feral of beasts will tame himself for a female's attention."

"Thank you."


	4. Waiting

Three days later, Brienne approaches as Sandor breaks his fast, not bothering to sit even though he's alone at the far end of a table in the Hall. She tells him he must report to Lady Stark later that day.

"Report?"

"Yes. The Lady wishes to hear of your progress with the dogs. Come to her solar after mid-day."

Since he spoke with Sansa in the kennel, Sandor has felt stretched out. He is both filled with never-ending energy in his purpose, and exhausted from lack of rest. At night his mind races like a war horse, and he can't will himself to sleep. Not that he wants to. The prospect of seeing her again, of talking to her, makes it seem as if the past few days have been a slow fog. The world moves faster this morning than he thought it ever could, and yet so slow that he feels like his time with her will never come.

He tries to use the training yard as a distraction, but ends up with silly nicks and bruises on his hands and forearms from the green boys who are delighted to find their formidable teacher's thoughts elsewhere. He is lost, truly and pleasantly, in the mystery that is the new Sansa, one he is sure he only caught a glimpse of the other day. She is both everything he remembers, and yet nothing like he remembers. The potential in knowing her now seems limitless.

When most others are making their way indoors for a mid-day meal, he tucks himself in a hidden spot within the stables, takes himself in hand, thinking of her like so often before, only now it's the new Sansa he pictures. The look on her face as she laughed with him. The pleasure of her mischievous smile. Their eyes locking. As he pulls the foreskin back, exposing his head to the cold air, a shiver runs down his spine. Then he does it again and again, beating a rhythm that quickly picks up pace. His thoughts show him no skin, or fantasies of compromising positions; just a connection that's intuitive, intimate, and raw. His release comes quickly. "Fuck me," he whispers to the cold air as it chills his lungs but does nothing to dampen the fire burning within his core, consuming his mind with thoughts of the smiling Sansa only he got to see.

While he's understood where the family quarters are, someone of his low birth and position would never have reason to visit, so even now he feels like a trespasser despite following a summons. Suddenly that which should be off-limits is no longer, because she's willed it so. Sansa Stark has invited him to where he should have no rights to be.

He bounds up the stairs and stops short, taken aback by the small gathering there. The Maester stands at the door, fingering his chain. The head cook's arms are folded across her chest, foot tapping quickly as the butcher glares at her from the side. Two others Sandor doesn't recognize, but he understands all too well that every one of them is waiting for Sansa'a attention. The Gods' damned Lady of Winterfell has a large audience. What had he expected?

A solid oak door on wraught-iron hinges opens and a man exists swiftly, going about his day with new orders. Then Brienne's huge body fills the door frame, and her eyes narrow when she sees Sandor. "Maester. The Lady will see you now."

Sandor leans against the wall and settles in for a long wait. 

 _I've waited_ years, he reminds himself. _An afternoon is nothing._

"Hey, big man," the cook calls to him. "You the one taking care of them dogs?"

"Aye."

"Good. 'Bout time."

Eager to please Sansa, Sandor has thrown himself into the task she offered. So although it would previously have gone against his nature, and might even now still be against his nature, he struck up conversations with groups of strangers to learn what he could about the dogs. He meant to discern if anyone knew about the dogs in neighboring Houses so he might know what went into Eddard Stark's line and who could possibly provide studs. What he got was much more.

Everyone has been troubled by the current state of Winterfell's dogs. Feeding on human flesh, even in the most dire of circumstances, is taboo. That is was dogs who did it, and at the hands of an abusive owner, makes no matter to smallfolk. They feel a sense of foreboding with such an abomination nearby.

So it was a relief for all of them to hear that something was being done, that the Lady was cleaning up a horrible mess. But it stoked a natural curiosity in people to desire more knowledge about what exactly had happened. Some knew Sansa had fed her late husband to them. Others heard of the sport hunting, and that gave way to the most fantastical rumors about Ramsey. Some thought he fed his enemies to them. Others heard he had them fight each other for a prize of flayed flesh from servants who displeased him. It turned Sandor's stomach and he was sorry he stirred the pot. He didn't give them what they wanted. He wouldn't betray her confidence, so he gruffly said he didn't know, just saw the problem as it is now, and they could bugger off about it.

One person asked how he came to the task, how the Lady knew to call on him. She was a curious young widow, well known to many, especially in the night. Her question stunned him. When he didn't answer right away, she winked and said, "Forget I asked." He had grabbed her wrist as she tried to walk away, knowing whatever answer he gave would become the new rumor on every tongue in the castle, so he decided on the truth.

"I knew her in King's Landing. I often guarded her. Provided protection from the King."

"Sounds like that makes you real qualified to sort out her kennel," she laughed, extracting herself from his grip. "No worries, milord. The lady's smart and she runs this place well. If she wants an excuse to keep you around, she'll find a good use for you."

She had seen right through him. But he used to be good at hiding his feelings, hadn't he? Now he wonders, as he bides his time in the hallway outside Sansa's solar, what makes for the difference. Perhaps before he never really had feelings to hide?

He's half-dozing when the door creaks open one last time. "Clegane," Brienne calls loudly even though he's the only one left. And then softer, as he approaches, "A little early and over eager today." He grunts and walks past her into the light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit short, but the next one's pretty long so I split them. Will post more shortly!


	5. Secret Sansa

The room is warm with a small fire in the hearth and sun streaming through the windows. Sansa sits at a small desk, her head over a book, writing. She looks up quickly, and a wide and honest smile speads over her face before she says, "Finishing up notes from the last one. I'll just be a moment."

Her breasts. He can actually see the top curves of her breasts and the delicious valley between. It was too warm for that bugger cloak in this room. He'd not yet seen her up close without it.

"Have a seat," Brienne says from her place behind Sansa.

There are two chairs in front of Sansa’s desk and he picks one, sitting across from her, the desk between them, lending the whole situation a formal air he thinks her greeting had sought to undermine. She places her quill down, closes the book, and pushes it aside. "So, tell me."

"I've culled the pack."

"So it's done?"

"Yes. It's done."

She takes a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing. "And?"

"You now have three females and one male. I tried to keep two males, but they..." A knock at the door interrupts them. A young woman, much the same age as Sansa, but smaller, enters with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"Thank you, Emmalise. You may set that on the front of the desk." The girl follows instructions and then hurries from the room. Sandor notices there are only two cups on the tray.  "Brienne," Sansa says, "I wish to give you the afternoon off."

"My Lady?"

"You've been most loyal in your duties and have earned a well-deserved rest."

"I will gladly do as you wish, but I must protest; Clegane is not your guard. He doesn't even wear mail at the present."

"Brienne, if there's anyone who can even come close to making me feel as safe as you do, it's him."

"If you insist."

"I do. And I'll see you in the Great Hall for the evening's meal."

When the door closes behind Brienne, Sansa stands and walks around to the front of her desk, pouring the tea. 

"You didn't have to throw her out and make her miss tea for me, Little Bird."

"Oh no, Brienne never drinks tea."

"Two cups?" Sandor replies. "You planned this."

"Maybe," she says with a coy smile. She turns back to the tray, dividing the biscuits while the tea steeps. "You were saying?"

"Yes. I tried for two males, but the one that took the worst of the abuse from the others just couldn't be saved, even when they were gone."

"Pity," she says. The pity is that he can't well concentrate with her perfectly formed plump arse swinging in his face as she finishes at the tray, handing him a cup and taking hers. He crosses one leg over the other, his foot resting on the opposing knee to try and hide his cock that's acting like some green squire's the first time he spies a comely kitchen wench. Sansa twirls to sit in the seat facing him and smiles. They each take a sip, hers delicate and his a loud slurp.

"Yes, but, um," he clears his throat, feeling off balance and desperate to right himself again. "Three females is good, each worth more for you then twice as many males."

"How so?" She sits perched on the edge of the chair, her back straight as a rod.

"You borrow a male to stud. The House he comes from gets the pick of the litter, but you get the rest. You'll build the line back quickly. I've even begun asking around about the breeding lines in neighboring Houses."

"Hmmm. I bet there were records made about all of this. Records that may or may not still exist." She seems distracted, looking around as if searching for the lost ledger right then and there, worry coloring her face. He senses her thoughts are a flutter. "I'll have to add it to my list of things to do, to look for." 

He wonders if she realizes her right knee is touching his.

"What? Is there a ledger labeled _Stud Swap_?"

She's not looking to see his smirk. Instead she pauses, looking at her tea, her desk, the window, anywhere but at him. "The one thing my mother prepared me well for was to run a great house, but she never expected that house to be serving as a staging barracks for surviving both winter and war."

"Sansa," Sandor says. "Relax." That breaks through finally, and she slides to the back of the chair and tries to mirror his slouch but with a bit less slump.

"Do you think the new galleries around the training yard look nice? The carpenters worked very hard."

"Stop chirping."

"I'm not chirping," she pouts. "Just overwrought."

"Leave that behind when you're with me. I can guess how hard your job is without knowing all the details. So forget about it for the moment." Her eyes are on him now. They're sharing that raw connection again and it feels like looking into the sun. "At least try and remember you're not in a cage anymore."

"No, it's more like a pedestal. I'm free to move around, but everyone's watching me, judging me, and I can't get down no matter how much I wish to rest."

"Sounds like shite." She grins at that.

"But you're right," she sighs, "It isn't a cage and I'm not a prisoner. There are no spies, and no beatings. Just vicious gossip."

"I know."

"Do you now?"

"I've heard some." 

"About who?"

"You, and some scoundrel you brought here from King's Landing who you've locked away in a kennel like the dog that he is." His shoots his arm out to the desk, grabbing a biscuit, startling her with his speed. She flinches, her knees rising slightly as she giggles. He stuffs the biscuits in his mouth and chomps off half of it triumphantly.

"I prefer this teasing to the kind you inflicted upon me in the Red Keep." He raises an eyebrow at her in question. "I used to think you were mocking me, that it was cruel. But I've thought often about the things you said to me, tried to teach me, and over the years I've come to understand you were simply teasing. I was just too stupid to know it at the time."

"You were never stupid."

She stares, considering him for a moment. "You've changed and its not just me and how I perceive you. Something happened. Tell me."

And he does. He tells her about her sister's influence. The fight with Brienne. About dying. Septon Ray. Seeing visions in the fire. The journey north of the Wall. She is as mesmerized by his stories as he is by her attentions, her questions, her concerns. They barely notice the sun setting until there's a knock on the door, the maid entering again. 

"Milady, I'm here to dress you for the evening's meal."

"Yes, I'll meet you in my bed chamber." Sansa stands and begins to make her way to the door between her solar and bedroom, but then she suddenly turns and grabs Sandor's hand with her own. "You can keep talking while I dress," she says, pulling him to follow her. "And then escort me to the Great Hall." She leads him to the door, opens it, and leaves him there. He leans against the frame, facing the solar. 

 _Fuck me_ , he thinks,  _Sansa Stark's bed chamber._ The comfort he'd eased into over the last few hours is gone and he begins to sweat. "Honestly Little Bird, I have no idea what I was saying," and he laughs, genuinely, at the absurdity of it all. Sansa Stark is undressing a few feet away and he could see her in all her glory if he would choose to be the shameless dog everyone already thinks he is.

"Ugh, sorry about this...disruption. The Queen insists everyone at the high table dress the part."

"Tis normal, at least in the South. You know that."

"It's not that. Having proper gowns made has not been a top priority in the work of rebuilding Winterfell. I only have this one." There's a sound of fabric swishing against fabric, and the maid grunting softly with exertion. "If you ever say to yourself," and here she drops her voice an octave, " _Why is Sansa always wearing that same thing_? You'll know why." The maid giggles and Sandor hears Sansa's sharp intake of breath as the laces of the gown are wound to their restrictive position.

"Are you mocking me?" Sandor asks. The maid giggles again.

"Of course not," Sansa replies, short of breath.

The maid adds, "His voice is much lower than that," before catching herself and adding, "Milady."

"See," Sandor jokes, "the girl's on my side."

"Emmalise!"

"Sorry, Milady, but it was funny to hear you like that." Sansa would laugh if her gown allowed it.

"The Queen insists she gift me with new gowns."

"That'll be nice, Milady."

Sandor says, "You don't sound as if you like it."

"I don't," Sansa answers. "And I don't know how to proceed. She insists I add color to my wardrobe."

"Aye. I know you favor your House colors, Little Bird, but you do often look in mourning."

"That's what the Queen said." Sansa smooths her skirts as Emmalise rebraids her hair to tame the wisps that fly away throughout the day. "But when every Northern House of note is vying for your hand, you can't wear a color without people interpreting it as a sign of preference."

"This is the pedestal you spoke of?" Sandor asks.

"Precisely. Choose blue and House Flint is signaled. Orange favors House Hornwood. And if I wear red then House Umber will say I'm for them while House Karstark will argue it was really the scarlet of their sigil. Yet if I stubbornly stick to my own colors it might lead on House Cerwyn." She stands at the mirror, examining the creases that worry carves into her face, and dismisses the maid. "I can't help but suspect the Queen is forcing me to sway one way or the other. To make a decision I dread more than anything."

"Is that why you've been withdrawn since the lot of us arrived with the dragons?"

"What?" she asks, surprised that he knew.

"Your brother asked me why you seemed vexed since he's returned to Winterfell."

Then her voice is behind him, close and small. "Will you tell him?"

Sandor turns, and it takes all of his will power not to reach out and embrace her, to compress the fear and anxiety away. He realizes he'd do anything to bring back the smile and light-hearted air of the afternoon they'd spent together. "Of course not. I'd never betray your confidence." He means it. It's the closest thing to a vow he's ever sworn.

"Thank you." Some tension leaves her face. "And I won't betray yours. Although I've already proven as much." Sandor is confused and he's sure she can read it on his face. "Don't you remember? You once tormented a young me with the best gossip I'd ever heard. The night you snuffed out your torch and told me how your face became so scarred."

"Gods, Little Bird, that's right. I've not thought of that in years."

"Then when we got to my room you told me if I ever told anyone..."

"I'd kill you." He feels sick, the memory flooding back as clearly as if it happened yesterday. "I was so scared, Sansa."

"I know that now."

"I couldn't believe I had told you. You had such sway over me, even then."

She cocks her head to one side, the look on her face tells him she's puzzling over something. "I never did tell a soul. Not because I was afraid you'd hurt me, but because I was afraid the telling of it would hurt you."

He holds his breath, stunned by her admission. He wants to cry and beg forgiveness. He wants to be angry at everyone who's ever hurt this perfect goddess of a woman, including himself. He wants her so much, and yet knows that neither his guilt nor his anger will do her any good. 

Most of all he wants to see her smile again. "And now you'll not be telling anyone what we say here in your chambers."

"Why? Will you threaten me again?" she asks.

"No. Because I've got a dog's reputation to uphold and I can't have you going around making people think I'm a sterling man." He offers her his arm, a smirk on his face, and she laughs. 

She laughs.

 Then they walk to the Hall together, her body so close that he can feel the vibration of giggles as they course through her. He tells her to go ahead, pick gowns in colors that suit her. "Then if you let me escort you to dinner in them, I'll seek out the House of that color and tell them to bugger right off." She beams at that and he's sure he looks like a right fool smiling back at her. 

As they start to encounter people, he sees the emotion drain from her face as it becomes the gloomy blank slate again, and he's heart-broken she feels the need to live this way. Yet the selfish side of him is elated that he gets to see a part of her she shows no one else, a secret Sansa only he enjoys.

She turns to him, one last moment before they part, squeezing his arms as she asks, "See you again tomorrow?"

"Of course." And he swears there's a flash of a smile before she's away. 


	6. A Final Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're getting so very close to the good stuff.

They continue on like this, spending each afternoon together to the point of such comfort that they lapse from the excuses they'd invented for themselves to meet in the first place. Even Brienne relents to the routine, often leaving when Sandor arrives.

Together they fall into an easy back-and-forth, acquainting themselves with each other's daily activities and observations, comparing perspectives on events seen from such different stations within the walls of Winterfell. Sansa is privy to a wider spread of news what with her access to both the Queen and her brother, not to mention daily talks with the Maester who tends the ravens flying to and from the castle regularly. Sandor ate and bunked among the fighting men, the small folk, and the Wildlings so he shared a wealth of knowledge Sansa quickly grew to appreciate and value as much as his company.

But mostly they tell stories.

He lets her dip in and out of her painful past, only going as deep as she wishes to go, never pushing for more, always practicing the attentive silence that passes as listening. Sometimes he shares in little ways that cast light from a different angle on whatever she's saying, and she seems to relish the new view. She'll pause, turning something over in her mind and then ask him a question as if he's someone who knows what he speaks of, who has something to offer a great Lady. It makes his chest swell with foolish pride. He knows it's an illusion, that his time here is borrowed, that it will be snuffed out if not by social propriety finally asserting itself via her bother, then by the Others themselves in the coming war.

His favorite is sharing stories that make her laugh. Often he recalls tales of Joffrey as a bratty child, humiliated in one way or another, and although they both find comfort in his death, Sandor hopes his stories fit her memories of his monstrosity so that they haunt her less and less. The way she lets go and releases herself to the relief she finds within him in these movements is delicious.

So on this day, as she attends to the tea tray, they exist in a comfortable silence born of such intimacy with each other. Yet he's so close, always making sure to take his seat before tea arrives so he might have the chance to feel a brush of her skirt, or the way her fingers make contact with his as she passes the cup he could so easily reach. These connections still set his heart to pump blood furiously in his ears and he thanks the Gods she doesn't speak then or he'd never be able to hear her.

"Well Little Bird," he says once she's seated, "not to go into too much detail, but I believe our first litter of pups are on the way." He'd been imagining telling her this all morning, and he's pictured her making some silly noise and clapping daintily like he remembers from the Tourney of the Hand all those years ago, but he realizes now that was the reaction of a fool girl, and so yet again he's reminded of the woman she is now.

A wide smile spread across her face and she maintains eye contact that burns a fire low in Sandor's belly as she blushes. "That's wonderful. Truly. Thank you."

"I'm not sure how much you know," he says, pausing to clear his throat for effect, "about animal husbandry, but I didn't have anything to do with it."

She cackles and leans forward to playfully slap his knee, her hand staying there and moving just slightly up his thigh. "You're scandalous." But her smile shows him that she's pleased. She stands, returns her tea to the tray, and walks to retrieve her cloak.

"Running away before I corrupt you further?"

"Of course not. I had contemplated visiting the stables today to attend an issue there, and now that I hear your news I want to visit the kennel too." She fastens her cloak and raises an eyebrow at him. "Are you going to escort me or shall I call Brienne back?"

He grunts in disapproval. "No need to tease an old dog who has trouble keeping up with your plotting."

"Plotting? You make me sound like Cersei."

"Sansa," he says with authority, "You could never be Cersei." And then, even though he had every intention to walk behind her like a guard, she takes his arm in her hands, tucking him close to her heart, and they walk out the door. 

The physical closeness of their stroll isn't new to them, they've been doing it every night on the way to eat in the Great Hall, but there are usually no witnesses. It is now broad daylight and they're walking across the grounds in full view of everyone. Sandor is dismayed at the way people stop and stare, even though it's followed by a bow and often a word of greeting that Sansa's title bestows upon her. But still.

"Are you nervous," she asks softly, curious and concerned.

"No." He pauses. "Not really. I've been stared at my whole life, its just..." he notices her listening intently, the usually blank mask she wears in public has slipped away. "It's been a while since people have stared, and I didn't notice until now." She squeezes his arm, a sign of reassurance visible to no one else and his stomach jumps. "Where am I taking you?"

"Let's start in the stables."

"So it's the surprise first?"

"Some recent arrivals found a few horses along their travels here. They're good men and assume the three horses' owner or owners must have perished to leave them riderless. They've offered them to Winterfell to aid in the coming war, but the one is a bit much."

"How so?"

"I hear he's a black and white courier, larger than any other in our stable, and a real fright. The stable boys have apparently started a rumor about it being haunted by the ghost of its former rider. No one's brave enough to saddle the poor thing."

"Aye, most people like to keep all their fingers and will let a horse like that be."

As they enter the stables the first boy to see them calls to the others that the Lady is present. Four more come to the front, the stables being an obvious place an orphaned boy can find himself work to earn room and board.

"You're a clever one," Sansa says the first. "Show us where the new horse is stalled. The troublesome one."

"You mean the terrible one, Milady," a second boys says to correct her.

"Shhh, quiet you," scolds the first. "Follow me, Lady Stark."

They walk as deep into the stables as one can get, so dark you can hardly see the great black beast with two large white splotches on his neck and side. He's so broad and whines with such insistence that Sandor wants to believe its Stranger with some whitewash smudged on him, but he knows that's impossible. And then he realizes he's approached the beast alone, Sansa standing a few feet back, just in front of the next stall with the stable boys. "Here now, boy," Sandor says softly, producing from his pocket one of the biscuits from Sansa's tea tray. He holds it up, not as a taunt, but not to beg for compliance either. "The trick," he says a bit louder so his audience can hear, "is to show a horse you're the one in charge but you'll respect them if they fall in line."

"Won't work with this one, Ser," says the bold second boy from before, correcting Sandor now as he had Sansa. "Woodward Monte already tried that. Punched the ornery bugger four times and it still bit him."

"Did he now," Sandor says. He looks the boy straight on, his eyes boring down long enough for the boy to look away nervously. "Are you scared of me, boy?"

"Yes, Sir," he whimpers.

"And have I punched you in the face?"

"Not yet."

"Aye. And I never will. I don't need to." He looks back again to the horse, extending his hand enough for the horse to eat if he comes forward to meet Sandor halfway. "You can beat people into submission, rule them with fear, but it'll never last. Eventually you'll come across something or someone who's not scare of you and all your bluster." He looks again to see the bold boy sulking, the others with faces of wonder as if he's a Maester sharing secrets from the Citadel, and Sansa beaming at him with a soft and satisfied smile.

Then he feels the simultaneous sensation of hot breath and wet saliva on his hand as the horse gobbles the biscuit whole. It surprises him a bit and the boys giggle. Sansa shoos them away before stepping closer to Sandor, so close he stiffens, his breath sticking in his throat as she places her hand on his shoulder and quietly says, "I'm off to the kennels. I'll give you a few more moments to be alone with your horse."

His brain and body stay frozen with fear and lust until she's out of the stable and he says aloud, "my horse?"

He takes a few minutes to unwind himself from the delicate dance he's weaved with the horse, not wanting to desert him so quick as to sabotage their progress, before practically running to the kennels. He storms around the corner, ready to demand Sansa explain the business with the horse only to come upon her and the blasted kennel keeper. 

"Oi, there he is," the man says looking sheepish but relieved as Sansa takes her eyes off him.

"I'm just getting thoroughly caught upon on the dogs from-" Sansa pauses, questioning.

"Erik. His name is Erik," Sandor says.

"Erik," Sansa repeats.

"Aye, yes, well that’s me name," he laughs nervously, rocking back on his heels. "And now that my Lo-, my umm..." he stops.

"Sandor," Sandor reminds him impatiently.

"Sandor is here he can fill in the rest. Good day." He bows quickly and leaves.

'What was the cause of all that?" Sansa asks, amused. 

"You."

"Me?"

"He's never talked with a highborn, probably never even seen one. He's here because his shite village in the middle of the woods burned down when some errant Wildlings came upon it." He takes a breath, closes his eyes to steady himself in her presence, and says, "What did you mean _my horse_?"

"Exactly what you think I mean. Your horse. I'm giving him to you."

He wants to stamp his feet and protest, demand she be smarter than this, but instead he simply hangs his head and sighs. "Sansa, it's not proper for you to show such favor to me." Sansa eyes him questioningly. "Publicly. You shouldn't be so open to others in showing me favor."

"Sandor Clegane," she scolds through clenched teeth. "You forget I am the Lady of Winterfell and can do as I see fit. You will likely soon ride into war against creatures from the seven hells and if I have to watch you go I will see that you are on a worthy steed." The anger in her voice humbles him and he keeps his head bowed. She reaches out, her fingers pulling at a frayed edge in the hem of his cloak getting his attention. In a softer voice she continues. "And that is what I shall say if anyone dares question me on it." She draws the fabric closer to her, inspecting. "Let me do this for you," she pleads, "I owe you so much."

"You owe me nothing, Little Bird. I can not accept it,"he sighs. "As much as I want to. It appears indecent."

"Look at it my way," she says, dropping the cloak edge and looking him in the eyes again. "I've a horse in my stables that no one dares touch but you. What else am I to do with him?"

"Then I'll take him if its the only way to save him from ending up in the butcher's shop."

She laughs and says, "Excellent. No you just need to determine a name." Here she turns away slightly, a coy smile upon her face. "Erik tells me you're good with names,” she says, nodding to the stall where the pregnant dog keeps.

This time he doesn't shy away. He looks her straight on and owns it. "Aye. To this I'll agree. She'll be mother to the pups that restore this line."

Sansa's eyes glow for a moment as tears show themselves by reflecting light. She says the name Erik told her Sandor had given to the pregnant female. "Lady Bird."

She reaches out, taking both his hands in hers, closes her eyes, and mouths the words  _thank you_ as the tears begin to fall. Sandor's heart breaks to see her so affected. He holds his breath, savoring this moment as they hold hands. It's so innocent and yet so intimate. "Come, Little Bird. It's late. Let's get you back to your chambers."

He leads her out of the kennels, and sensing that she not only needs a moment to collect herself but also something to take her mind off her emotions. So he talks. "Erik is a good man. Works well with the dogs, and quickly picked up a few things I could teach him. I'm not saying he'll be some legendary kennel master, but if we all survive this coming war he'll need a place like anyone else. He'd serve you well here." He can tell it's working in more ways than one; it's calming her and keeping people at bay since it looks like Sansa is busy with a subordinate. "And those stable boys are doing as well as can be. It's hard, honest work in such a crowded space, and it seems that older one's running the others in line although it'd probably do that mouthy one a bit of good to shovel a lot more shite."

She laughs and Sandor feels a sense of victory. "And what about you? What will you do _when_ you survive the war?"

"If this scarred, old body of mine actually makes it through another battle with the Others, I don't know what it will be much good for anymore." It's true, and he says it with more surprise then sullenness. Since his time traveling North, especially after the first vision in the fire, everything has been so immediate, every need so persistent, he's just gone from one moment to another, also hoping to get the best he can get and not expecting or anticipating more.

"Let's consider...you can bring even the most brutal war horse to heel. You can fix a dog breed and train a kennel master. You're the best at training men to fight, and you provide much needed counsel to the Lady running a great House. Sounds to me like you're well suited to be the Lord of a castle."

For once he can't refute or protest or even fucking glower at her. He's dumbfounded. He should be shocked and frightened, but he's simply struck numb. He doesn't remember reaching the door to the family chambers, opening it, and going inside, but he must have done those things because suddenly they're climbing the stairs and Sansa is holding his hand rather than his arm. "I think you have it wrong about us Northerns," she says. "If people are no longer staring at you it's not because we're so hardened." She pauses and waits for him to respond or react in some way, but he's incapable of basic actions at this point. "It's rather because before it was not your scars that scared all of us but the anger in your eyes." They reach the door to her solar and Sansa stops, waiting as he opens it, and then steps in front of him and says, "at least that's what frightened me before, in King's Landing. But now that the angst is gone, I rather like looking at your face." Then she has the audacity to walk right into the room as if nothing earth shattering has just happened in Sandor's world. 

Sandor wonders if Sansa is a witch because he's certainly feels possessed right now, as if something else inhabits his body and wills it to follow her into the room, close the door, and hang his cloak next to hers.

Sandor wonders if she'd ever been disgusted by his face, if it has always been this eye-seated anger she speaks of now. He wonders what difference this new knowledge might mean.

Sandor wonders why she's saying this now, and what else she may have planned.

Sandor wonders what she would look like, beckoning him into her bed. He wonders what she would look like swollen with a child grown from his seed planted inside her.

Sandor wonders how long he's been standing here, not appreciating her plump arse bobbing in the air in front of him as she stokes the fire, bringing life back to what neglect almost extinguished.

"Did I tell you," Sansa says as she replaces the poker in its stand by the hearth, "that tomorrow I'm to be presented with the dresses commissioned for me by the Queen?"

He blinks. At least he's pretty sure he blinks. He's not capable of much else right now. He knows he's not breathing.

"Sandor? Are you alright?"

Like a horse cracked by the whip of an impatient master, Sandor moves all at once to close the distance between them. One hand slides into Sansa's hair at the base of her neck, cradling her head as he tilts it up to his own. His other hand finds purchase at her waist. She receives him so naturally like they've always known how to embrace, to join their lips, to find acceptance in each other and solace in the shared space. Her lips are the softest thing Sandor's ever felt, and he thanks the Gods he got this one chance to experience them because he's absolutely sure she'll only ever let him get away with stealing this one moment. 

But then he feels her hands sliding over his shoulders, clasping around his neck and a soft whimper sounds trapped in her throat. She uses her hold on him to balance herself, inverting her back to press herself to him, pulling herself further up his body. Its such a wanton move, so foreign to a great dog like him, that he pulls himself away, inhaling like he's been held underwater. Now it's his turn to ask, "Sansa?"

Her eyelids are heavy with that singular focus that comes in a fit of lust, and she whispers, "finally," before pulling him back to her. The move is so aggressive, so above and beyond anything he has ever dared to even fantasize, that he must surrender to her in this as in all else.

Their mouths open and Sandor welcomes her tongue, trying for a playful approach to simmer the heat of her's. But he also drops his hand so that now both are at her waist where the dress cinches fabric and accentuates the curve of her hips. He pulls them into his own, rubbing his erection against her, hoping the layers of material between them allows for the boldness of his pleasure to be known but not overstated. He knows what she's been through, and he doesn't want to scare her off. Any man can use their's as a weapon if its held right, and his size can make even professional women weary. Not that he'd ever hurt Sansa. She knows this, right?

Sansa brings one hand from behind him and slow glides down his chest, slowing at his abdomen, pausing for a moment before grabbing hold of the laces at the top of his breeches. She pulls her mouth from his and looks down to see what she's working with. Sandor grabs her wrist, panting against her forehead, and says, "wait, Little Bird."

"Why?" she asks.

"Just...give me a minute...let's just...we need to talk about...for fuck's sake I can't think straight right now," he says, shaking his head, perplexed and winded.

She giggles, returning her hands to his shoulders, then taking hold of his face, one on each cheek. "Sandor Clegane, have I finally found the thing in this castle you aren't a master at?"

"I'll master you," he growls, his face diving into her neck and nipping at her playfully. She makes a soft, high-pitched _whoot_ like a pleasure bird and giggles.

There's a knock at the door. Three raps and they both freeze. After a moment Sansa's wits return to her and she whispers, "It's only Emmalise, here to dress me for the evening's meal." Sandor releases a hot breath on her collarbone that blows down her chest and she shivers.

Sandor stands up straight, pulling himself back from her, and says, "go." Sansa's lips are swollen, her cheeks bright red, and she doesn't move for a moment, smiling at him again. He has to repeat himself, giving her a light little spank for good measure.

He stays in the solar, forgoing his usual play in the doorway between rooms, so he can rub his face and get himself together. It's back to reality now. Time to go about the normal routine as if nothing's changed.

But everything's changed. He doesn't want to pretend it hasn't, but he'll probably have to, at least for now. He'll have to let her take the lead in this as he sure as hells doesn't know how to navigate the intricacies of an affair with a highborn lady. Fuck.

"Sandor," she calls from her room. "Are you coming?"

He laughs to himself and thinks _as soon as I can find a few minutes alone_. But then she's there, in the doorway, looking for him. "Aye, I'm here Little Bird. Just needed a minute."

She walks to him, stepping as close as social restrictions will never allow them to be in public, places her hands on his chest and sighs. "I should have told you I had one more reclamation I needed help with. But that's not really what it is." She's tense so he places his arms around her, embracing her for comfort. "Its not really anything I've ever had, so I can't truthfully say it needs to be reclaimed."

"And what's that," he asks, his lips brushing her forehead.

"I want to feel...safe with a man. I want to feel..." she pauses, her fingers playing with a loose flap of leather knicked into his jerkin. "I traveled to King's Landing when I was very young. I knew only about kisses, and even they seemed scandalous. And you know what's happened to me since then." He continued to hold her and began rocking slightly to soothe both their nerves. "I'm a woman now, and I've known all that a man can extract from me even if I'm not willing. And I know there's more, that there's something for me too." He feels a tear fall onto his forearm and he shushes her softly, something he's never done before. "No, let me say this." Sansa pulls back from him, the tears coming harder now. "I've heard the women in the kitchen, the maids at the laundry, and they all have such bawdy stories and such laughter about the men they enjoy, and it's nothing like what I know and it's not fair."

"Sansa," Sandor says, pulling her close again so he can hide the small laugh that wants to escape his lips. "It's alright girl. All those women would be floored to hear you're jealous of them."

"But I am, truly Sandor, I am jealous. It's not fair." She laughs a little, understanding how childish she sounds when she talks about her servants this way. And as if given permission, Sandor laughs now too.

He pulls himself back again, wiping the tears from her face, and returns to a serious tone. "Are you sure, Sansa? You want to learn how to find pleasure with a man, and you want me to help you do this?"

"No," she sniffles, "You misunderstand me. I don't want to learn how to find pleasure with a man. I want to learn how to find my pleasure with you." She rocks onto the front of her feet and kisses him again. They pull each other close and continue, but it's not as heated as before. They know they must stop.

"Sansa, are you sure?" he asks, his eyes pleading with her to see reason, to see the error of her plans, to really mean it and never ever change her mind.

"Yes. And you can think on it until we're together again on the morrow."

 


	7. The Dress

It's not like she's completely helpless. She can manage a castle after all. She can keep her sister in line, mostly. She can balance books and portion provisions, and if she didn't have this heavy cape and billowy skirts in the way she'd have landed many a kick right between an uppity man's legs. Like the wagon driver who tried to cheat her by weighting his sacks of grain with lead. Or the upstart knight from the south who made a crude jape about her body; she let her own men handle him. But she knows there are men far worse than this in the world, and for them she's reserving her dagger.

It's a pretty little thing, something Arya picked up along the way, perhaps? Which is to mean she took it off a dead man, one she probably killed, but Sansa doesn't like to think on that too much. Arya can do what she likes as long as they don't have to talk about it.

She loves sneaking through the keep before sunrise, the childlike feeling of naughtiness she didn't chase often enough as a girl. The way the yard spreads before her, empty and open, as she makes her way to the Godswood. Funny to think of it as sneaking. Who would punish her? She's the one in charge.

She has promised to turn herself over on these early mornings training with Arya, drop all manners and sense of propriety, because it was the only way Arya said she'd ever take to it. The forms, the moves that slice and stab at imagined enemies. "It's better to picture someone real, someone solid," Arya had advised, and Sansa looked confused. It wasn't because she couldn't picture someone she'd like to maim; it was because she couldn't decide which one to settle on. So every morning she decides who it will be before she arrives. Today she picks Ramsey. 

As she makes her way through the slight path to a hidden opening where they spar, as private as they can get inside Winterfell's walls, she calls to Arya knowing she'll be there first, as always. "I've got the most splendid vision to motivate me..." She stops, shocked.

It's not Arya but Sandor who stands in their usual spot.

"What?" she asks, out of breath. He looks uncomfortable, not at all like she's seen him as of late. Then Ayra appears before her field of vision, apparently there all the time if Sansa was capable of seeing anyone else when Sandor is around.

"Don't panic," she says calmly. "I asked him to come. He's here to help."

Sandor snorted. "Asked."

"Okay," Arya says, "So I sort of forced him."

"What is the meaning of this?" Sansa demands of him.

"Don't get mad, Sansa," Arya answers. "You've come so far, you're ready to practice with the real thing. And I'm too small to represent what usually preys upon you."

Sansa takes a stutter step, looking back and forth between them. "Well what about Brienne?" she asks Arya.

"That's what I said," Sandor offers.

"She would never," Arya says, "And you know it. If she got one whiff of this she'd say it was improper and be offended. Then she'd make us stop." She looks at the large man behind her, then back at her sister. "Is there anyone you trust more than him?" Sansa's eyes drop and she takes her cloak off in a gesture of acceptance. "Good. Now let's get started."

Sansa approaches Sandor, her eyes on the ground, taking deep breaths to settle herself. She can hear he's doing the same.

He steps closer to her, his voice low so Arya can't hear, and whispers, "It's alright, Sansa. It's just me." She looks up and meets his eyes. She is furious.

"Alright," Arya says, "So let's begin." Sansa immediately moves to a ready position, slightly crouched as if ready to launch herself at him. "Actually, Dog, I don't know where you'd begin. I've never been as big as you."

"And I've never gone after a woman like this. Especially one who looks ready to tear my balls off." Arya laughs and Sansa smirks, accepting it as the compliment it is.

"Trying to flatter me so I'll put my guard down?" she asks. 

"Never," he flirts back.

"Okay, well if you see she is armed, and you don't mean to kill her, wouldn't you try to disarm her?" Arya says.

"Aye, or more likely turn her around, neutralize that pointy stick and take control."

"Good, then try that." 

The dance begins, and Sandor can see Sansa means business. She's wound tight but still moves swiftly as he makes to grab her. He takes two half-hearted lunges and she almost seems mad at him for not really trying. Arya yells, "Come on, she won't learn if you go easy."

He growls with anger and takes a strong step forward, no fear of the dagger, clamps his meaty paw around her opposite wrist and twirls her around, pulling her back against his chest, breath hot in her ear, and says, "yield."

Sansa's mind is transplanted for a moment, back to hundreds of moments just like this one, when she was told the same thing with a snake-like hiss in her ear. Her body stiffens with fear and dread and the muscle memory of a physical trauma wrought upon her time and time again. Sandor's grip loosens, he backs way, and asks, "Sansa?" and only then is the spell broken. But however brief, it's done damage. She drops to her knees and begins to sob. Then Sandor is there, just behind her, afraid to hold her although it's what he wants. "Sansa, Sansa?" he asks desperately.   


"Not you," she whispers. "Anyone but you." And she jumps like a startled deer and races back to the keep, leaving devastation in her wake.

 

*****

He isn't at dinner. But then he hadn't come to her solar for the afternoon either, and Sansa made a lame excuse to Brienee to explain his absence, claiming she asked for some time alone to work on the new dresses the queen had delivered that morning. So she knew he wouldn't be here, had hoped for it, but knows better.

She takes her leave early, slipping past the guards and through the doors before dessert is even served. She grabs a small lantern hanging outside the doors and makes her way across the deserted yard, to the kennels. It's the first and only place she knows she'll need to look.

There are no lights inside, save hers, but she doesn't let that deter her. And there, in the corner, as she suspected is a drunk Sandor. Sitting in the dark, at least two empty wineskins laying limply around him, a third in his hand.

"Little Bird," he says, like an announcement to the dogs.

"I knew you'd be here."

"And yet here you are," he slurs.

"And I knew you'd be like this."

"The fair beauty knows me well. Too well." He throws his head back to take another gulp and its wobbly, resting against the wall for some stability.

She walks towards him, squats down to be at eye level with him, fully ensconced in her great cloak, and sets the lantern aside. "Sandor, I'm sorry. I know you were only trying to help, but I can't always control how I react to bad memories." 

"You're sorry, Little Bird? No. No. You're not to be sorry. I'm sorry. I'm the one who fucked up so royally. I should have known better. I _did_ know better but that little she-wolf sister of yours is so damn persuasive."

Sansa giggles. "I know."

"But no. That's wrong. It's a lie. I am a greedy fucker, and although I knew better I wanted a chance to be close to you, to know you in this new way."

"Ever after everything I've asked of you? The closeness I already desire?"

"Aye," he says, lobbing his head forward. "Like I said. Greedy."

"Or maybe you're scared of what I offered, and so you sabotaged it?" She says, looking away.

He looks at her, suspicion in his eyes, and grunts. "Or maybe I was scared of dinner."

"What? Because I told you I'd wear one of my new dresses?" She knows he misses nothing about her, no detail goes lost, so now she suspects this is all a farce in a way. He's drunk, for sure, but not as drunk as he plays to be. He's sobering up the deeper she goes. "Oh I see now, the fearsome Sandor Clegane is afraid of what color dress I might wear." He eyes her wearily. "Oh you should have seen it, the Great Hall, in an uproar over my choice." She turns her sharp eyes back to his, challenging him. "Now you must stop this so you can protect me from the scandal," she teases.

"You're being cruel now."

"You deserve it. A little."

"Aye, but still."

"Oh come on, you great oaf, stop this now." And she reaches her hand out for his, her arm leaving the shelter of her cloak, and the lantern light shines off the yellow silk of her sleeve. Sandor freezes. She likes shocking him, so this is enjoyable, but she grows impatient. "Come on now, I'm tired of asking." She wiggles her fingers to get his attention, and when he looks down he notices the little black dogs embroidered in a ring around the cuff of her sleeve.

"Sansa," he declares, taking her hand. She stands and tries to pull him with her, but its more a suggestion then actual help. As he rises above her, his full height filling her with excitement like always, he draws her close to himself. "What have you done?"

"Only what I wish," she says and opens her cloak to show him the whole dress. It's all there, yellow silk with black trimmings around her waist, down her skirts, rimming the low slung neckline. He pulls her in for an embrace, holding tight as if he intends to never let her go. She shivers. "The neck is a bit revealing, and it makes me cold." He pulls his cloak around hers with the hand still holding the wineskin. She reaches out and grabs it, then hands him another from within her own cloak's pockets. "Here, we'll trade. You take this water skin and I'll finish this wine off for you. That way we'll be even."

"As the lady commands," he laughs.

"I do," she says, and winks at him before downing a mouthful. She coughs and sputters, "The stuff you drink tastes more awful then it smells." He laughs again and then leans his head down and captures her for a kiss. It's easy now, natural and welcoming after the practice they've had and she likes it but still must pull back and cough again. "Your mouth tastes just like the wineskin. Drink more water."

He laughs and says, "Only if you'll tell me what I missed."

"Well the Queen said I looked lovely in the color, thank you very much, but I don't believe she understood it." She takes another drink, a large one, as if she's trying to just get through it already. "Then Tyrion echoed her compliment and when she'd turned away he said 'It's a shame he's not here to appreciate it.'" Sandor chokes and she laughs at him before taking another drink of wine.

"If there's anyone who would know my colors, it's him."

"Oh don't think it's just him. I'm sure some of the Northern lords know, and the rest just understand it's none of their colors."

"And your brothers? Your sister?"

"Arya's keeping her distance, but I bet it's because she feels guilty about upsetting me this morning. Bran is just, you know," and here she waves her hand over her face as she makes it go slack and gives the impression of unseeing eyes. 

"I like my Little Bird with some drink in her," he laughs. "And what of your brother, the King?"

"His Queen was wearing something quite improper. I'm sure he didn't notice my dress because he was too distracted by her teats." It is the loudest she has ever heard Sandor laugh. His whole body rocks against hers and she can't help but join him.

"Correction," he says, "I love you a little drunk." She gasps, stills within his embrace, and welcomes his kiss eagerly. Her free hand slides over his collarbone, up behind his head and into his hair, gripping it hard as he moans. She drops the empty skin in the other hand, and tugs at the bottom of his tunic so she can find her way underneath it, her hand gliding over the bare skin of his belly and chest. He growls and pulls her as tight against himself as he can, like he'll fold her into himself as if they're the dough that makes sweet treats.

"Sandor," she pulls back to whisper quietly. "Do you remember what I asked of you yesterday?"

"Remember?" he says, kissing her forehead, "How could I forget. You've made me as nervous as a filly surrounded by wolves."

"Wolf. Just one wolf," she grins.

"I ask again, are you sure? Even with this stunt with the dress tonight, you can take it back. I won't ever demand this of you."

"Really, Sandor? You ask me that even as we're wrapped together like this?"

"I have to, Little Bird. You place too much trust in me."

"Why? Because you think yourself so low?"

"Aye. And also because I've never helped a woman find her pleasure. At least not on purpose." She traces her fingers over his lips, quieting him for a moment. "It would be easier to help you if you know how to please yourself." She looks up at him, questioning. "Do you, girl? Do you know how to bring pleasure to yourself?"

"For a time, in the Vale, I had a bawdy friend who spoke to me openly of such things because she didn't know I was me. I felt safe enough to try."

"And?" he asks, pulling her close again, his stiffness of his member unmistakable against her hip. She wiggles a bit to acknowledge she knows its there and he lets out a low groan.

"I would bar my door and think of you, the way your weight pinned me to the bed the night the Blackwater burned."

He stills. "You mean when I held a knife to your throat."

"Yes. It was terrifying but also woke something in me. I wanted to be covered by you again, to feel all of you against me." His breath comes faster and feels heavy in her hair. "Petyr used to say there is a razor edge between pleasure and fear. In my imagination I could cross that line so easily when I knew it was you, you who would never hurt me. Then, once I was married to Ramsey he used the same tactics on me and I felt betrayed by my own desires, as if my body had lied to me all along. I can't do it since then. I can't find my own pleasure because those memories intrude and ruin it." She buries her face in his chest.

"It's alright, Sansa. At least now we know where to start." He gently pushes her back, bends to grab the lantern, and leads her back to her room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter you'll get what you've been waiting for. And I'll probably have to change the rating too.


	8. Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Had to change the rating;)

Sansa has to walk so fast to keep up with Sandor that she's having trouble catching her breath. But it's fine. She's giggling at his speed while her cheeks grow warm and her legs weak as the hard drink moves through her veins. And its a good thing she can't keep up, because if she could she wouldn't be able to keep her hands off of him. Now they just look strange, hurrying over the grounds while most of the castle is still in the Great Hall. If she had her hands all over him it would be down right scandalous.

"What's so funny, girl?" he asks with a half-hearted scold as they reach the stairs in the keep.

"Oh nothing much. Just you," she teases, panting now as she takes the steps two at a time.

They reach her door and he turns, taking her into his arms, "Are you you mocking me?" He leans down for a kiss, hard and smothering, but she can't stop giggling. Then she hiccups. "You're drunk."

"No I'm not."

"Maybe we should wait," he suggests without pulling away.

"Listen to me not-a-Ser-or-a-Lord Sandor Clegane. You are not getting away from me tonight." She holds her finger to his lips to quiet him, her tone suddenly serious. "I am fine. Besides, I need a bit of drink to make me brave."

"To make you a fool," he says, kissing her again.

"You of all people should know they are the same."

"Fair enough." He opens the door and sweeps her inside.

She twirls from his arms, taking her cloak off and he bars the door behind them. "I've already told my maid I won't need her this evening."

"Did you now," Sandor replies, crossing the few steps between them.

"I had rather hoped I could get someone else to help me with undressing." Her eyes have turned from showing him the delight that accompanied her giggle to a dark, more serious look. She's hungry for him, and it's a thrill that sets a fire in his belly. He kisses her hard, their mouths opening and heads moving as his hands glide up and down her back. She presses herself into him, a soft moan escaping as his one hand finds its way to her breast, rubbing her over the cloth of the dress. He pulls back, knowing he has to stop to get them past this step.

"What in the hells must I do to get this off you, Little Bird?" She responds with a short laugh, different now than her silliness before, and turns so he can access the laces keeping her tucked tight inside the yellow and black material. It's short work although he lets out several growls of impatience, and finally he says, "There. You're free now."

But he steps away a few feet, and Sansa makes noise to show she disapproves. "Where are you going?"

"This is about you, Sansa. Like I said."

"Are you serious?" But it's clear he is. "I had hoped not." She shimmies out of the copious amounts of fabric until she's just in her shift, small clothes, and stockings. "And now?"

Sandor looks lost for a moment and she wonders if he's even heard her. He's captivated. And hard. She can see it clearly even from a few feet away, in fire light, under his own clothes. "Lay in your bed, on top of the furs." He walks to the chair at the hearth and turns it to face the foot of her bed. She's done as he asked, her head back so she sees only the ceiling. "How do you feel?" he asks.

"I feel as if, if you weren't here, it would be any other night and I'm getting ready for sleep." He can tell she’s pouting.

He makes a tsk noise with his tongue a few times. "That won't do. Remove your shift." She complies and shuts her eyes. "And now?"

"Exposed."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm barely wearing anything, and you're here watching me." There's silence while she takes a deep breath and feels herself relaxing on the exhale. Her legs, while still together, unclench and the knees roll slightly outward.

"Are you relaxed now?"

"Mostly," she responds. But she feels the tension shifting from a purpose of protection to one of anticipation. "I don't feel so nervous at least." 

"Good. Now touch those splendid teats of yours." She brings both hands to her chest and gently slides two fingers over each nipple. They tighten and perk to hard points. She rubs back and forth a few times and lets out a hard breath. "That's it, Little Bird," Sandor encourages, his voice deeper and thicker than usual. "Now pull up that shift and oppose yourself to the cool air."

She takes a sharp inhale as the chill shocks her warm nipples, the blood pumping close to the surface as she plays with them. Instinctually she begins to rub her whole palm over them, getting rougher with each rotation. Then when she changes to pinching each, rolling them between her thumb and forefinger, her legs bend and open her up. She hears Sandor groan and it makes her hips buck every so slightly with need. 

"And now? How do you feel?"

"Good. Really good," she moans. "And empty." 

"Put your hand inside those small clothes and see how wet you've got yourself."

She's embarrassed. She's curious. She's slightly horrified that she's even doing this, let alone with someone watching. But at the same time she's too excited to care because she knows this is right. This feels too good not to be right. More importantly it's what she's wants, and she knows she wants this as much as she's ever wanted anything. And she's scared that if she keeps thinking about what she's doing then this little world he's created with her inside this room will crack open like an egg and all will be lost. She can't have that.

"Oh Gods, Sandor," she moans, "I've soaked." And she begins the giggles again, just for a few moments, before her fingers land on her swollen spot that feels sore in the best way possible. The giggles are gone.

Sandor chuckles. "Surprised?"

"A little." She smiles, her eyes still closed, proud of herself. She knows what the wetness is for. It's appeared before, when she least wanted it to, but it had to and it made that horror of Ramsey a little less harmful at times. She knew it was her body taking care of itself. And now it's in such excess. It must be responding to the way Sandor makes her feel. Or the anticipation of his size.

She takes off her small clothes, sitting up slightly to manage, and she sees Sandor for the first time since it began. His eyes are half open, focused on what she's just revealed, and she can hear him whisper "Keep the stockings on, yes," before closing his lids all the way. He's rubbing himself over the cloth of his breeches, adjusting his hips in the chair for easier access.

This is ridiculous. This isn't just about her. It's a dance that takes them both. She wouldn't be like this without him. And she rocks forward and crawls towards him on all fours. It's not until she's climbing off the bed that he notices and opens his eyes with a start. "Sansa?" She stands before him, so close her teats are level with his eyes and he watches the one she's still playing with. 

"I thought this was about me?" she says with a smile.

"Gods, woman. I'm a man of flesh and blood. Not made of steel."

She presses her hand against his cock, kneading it and being rewarded with the moans she hoped for. "Could have fooled me." He laughs and kisses her. "Won't you join me?" she asks, leaning forward and using her free hand to pull at the laces straining over his manhood. 

Once he's free, Sandor leans back, spread his legs, and strokes himself freely. She's between his knees and places one foot on the seat of the chair, opening herself to her own hands and his eyes. She continues to play with one breast while rubbing her nub in circles with the other. Then the hand on her chest grabs his shoulder for stability and he leans forward to take up the job of stimulating her nipple with his mouth. 

She moans, her breath coming harder and harder, leans her whole body towards him, and says, "Sandor. Sandor. Sandor. Look what you're making me do." And  pleasure that has been coiling inside of her finally releases itself in a spectacular display of bucking hips, spazing muscles, and loud emissions she never imagined to hear from her own throat.

She feels a warm liquid on her thigh and looks down to see Sandor's finishing himself while groaning her name in a quiet prayer.

There is only the warmth of their passion and the sound of their panting lungs taking up the void of sensations that suddenly exist. Sansa grabs the back of his neck and brings her face forward to his.

"You called me woman."

"What?"

She laughs. "Just now. You always call me girl, but just there you called me woman."

"Aye," he says, taking her hips in his hands and pulling her close. "There's one hell of a fucking woman inside of you, Sansa Stark." She throws her head back and laughs with joy as he presses his face between her teats and smushes kisses onto her sweaty skin.

"That was fun," she says. "What's next?" 

 


End file.
